What Makes a Dark Lord
by Acta Est Fabula
Summary: Abandoned due to the sheer unnaturalness of the character. It was getting far too close to a 'super!Harry' for my liking.
1. Pride

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

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What Makes a Dark Lord

by

Acta Est Fabula

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-Chapter I-

Pride

"Good day, Mr. Potter," called Mr. Dumbledore, his 'ever-visitor' as he called him "or would the greeting fashion of today's, such as 'Oi! Potter!,' would be more appropriate?" Mr. Dumbledore caressed his 'too long to be true' beard and mustache cluster with one hand.

Ever since he was one and a half years old, Mr. Dumbledore would visit him from time to time. Not that he could remember that far back, but Mr. Dumbledore had told him so. Sometimes as often as twice a week, sometimes as seldom as biweekly, but never less than three times a month. The visits never ceased to amaze him, however, as the timing was never foreseenable –not to mention the wonderous robes and hats he wore in all colors and designs, with so many variaties of pattern composition on them. He had even worn a stellar map of a few constellation, and he had told him the story of how the stars on his robes had come to be! Mr. Dumbledore was a great story-teller, in his eyes –how he could turn a simple thing into a tale! It was fascinating.

"Such a pleasure to see you, Mr. Dumbledore, this fine day." Harry replied in sentences decades bigger than his meager ten year old self. Mr. Dumbledore was also a great orator with unmached rhetoric skills, which he was trying to imitate now. "How have you been since we last met?" he inquired.

"Ah," Mr. Dumbledore smiled with the warmth only great-grand fathers could manage to radiate, "being nigh a century old, I have scarce few to complain about –if you look past the expectations of the society, though, even you might have as much reason to complain as myself of it, I presume...?"

Yes, Mr. Dumbledore spoke in riddles _always_. It had taken ages to get used to it, and doubly more to actually be able to understand. He was yet to manage the same conduct of speech fluently.

"Actually this weeks school-work was rather..." he squinted his eyes to find the most appropriate and most extravagant word to use, "compliant of my other..." he had yet to grasp the concept of this roundabout aproach of language usage, "leisure time endeavors!" He sighed with relief. Hope was not lost yet.

Mr. Dumbledore laughed wholeheartily, attracting even more stares, if there was any left to attract. He always did when Harry succeeded in imitating him. "I have been- ah, 'rubbing off on you' more and more, I see. Do tell me, though: what does your instuctor say about your behavior?" Then he indicated with hand to continue walking. The wide circle around them was painfully obvious.

Harry snorted in disdain. "He does not... appreciate my efforts; trying to dumb my every sentence down, I say...!"

Mr. Dumbledore's voice sharpened, "Be ever vigilant towards your own attitude, Harry; many a great man has fallen into the grip of selfishnes, and pride is the main culprit."

The comparision of Harry himself with those who believed pureblood wizards and witches were better than the rest was below the belt. They had talked about those kind of people –more like Mr. Dumbledore asked some questions, and Harry thought about the answers, mostly- and Mr. Dumbledore _knew_ he was not like that. And he would tell Mr. Dumbledore so, in their way. "Should I not be better not because whom bore me, but whom I have become –whom I have _chosen_ to become?"

Mr. Dumbledore's sigh choked Harry.

"Forgive my faux pas, Harry," Mr. Dumbledore apologized, "the resemblance is _so_ uncanny that I sometimes forget...!" He smiled, a sad smile... "I merely wished you not take the same road that I have, lest it _smites_ you into a half-broken shape than some other that would mold and bake a character to withstand."

Mr. Dumbledore was so humble a man –even in his overwhelming wisdom and experience, he would never think himself above apologizing,- that he felt what shame meant. "Forgive me, Mr. Dumbledore; I never meant to..." he paused, closed his eyes and inhaled to ease his distress and draw strength from the air around him.

Mr. Dumbledore didn't interrupt his ritual of calming, they would never interrupt, and they would not leave a sentence broken that had to be said –Harry was beginning to develop the almost intuition that Mr. Dumbledore had.

Harry began again, "If I offended you somehow, please forgive me. It was not my intention at all."

"Think nothing of it, Harry –how could I expect you to understand what I meant when it was said without the proper context? And let us shoot two birds with one stone, as the saying goes, and twist our topic for today's discussion to suit this need... shall we?"

"You mean, sir that...?"

Mr. Dumbledore's ever present smile deepened. "Ah, I see you have noticed our dilemma. Yes, you will have to play myself, while I shall content myself with being my younger self. I hope you will also see the irony which is my life. Also, that is the reason I gave you my biographies, not because I happen to be a big fan of those books and myself." He winked.

Harry frowned when the lesson in all this drama eluded him. Mr. Dumbledore always presented one –mostly in ethics and morals- but this one was even more ambiguous than ever. He would have deducted, most probably, by the end of the day –and more often he would learn the theme by then only, than the alternative with their 'games.' He repeated their mantra in his mind: 'First know all you can, then analyze, then decide; analyze your decision, come to a conclusion.' This was how they played 'the Game.'

During the Game, Mr. Dumbledore would play the 'devil's advocate' as he termed the act, and Harry himself would play the 'voice of reason,' or what he could manage the closest to it. How the rules applied to this was beyond him yet, as both sides were to be Dumbledores in some manner or another.

Mr. Dumbledore took his wizard's hat off with a flourish and, with but a touch, unlocked and opened the front door of the number four, Privet Drive. "Shall we?"

Harry noticed that the audience had dissipated at some point as they always would.

When they entered the house, Mr. Dumbledore immediately greeted the occupants inside, "Ah, my dear Petunia, how are you this magnificant day?"

Aunt petunia just huffed and puffed, not ceasing her cleaning. She didn't even acknowledge the address. She was as crude a muggle as a muggle could possibly be. Then, like she had not thought about it from the moment they entered, she threw the rubber gloves aside and started to practically run away.

Harry smiled at her. "Stay, Aunt; you need not let our presence keep you from your... _duties_."

They sat themselves comfortably on plush armchairs in front of a hearth facing each other. There was a chess set with moving pieces between them. With a flick of his wand, Mr. Dumbledore set the wood ablaze.

The red glow was casting an eerie light over the room, illuminating their faces in a most natural, yet so surreal way. This was magic, natural and surreal at the same time... And this was 'the Magic Corner' Dursleys would not even dare look, let alone touch any object there.

With another flick of Mr. Dumbledore's wand, they were sipping icy-cold butterbeers. Harry ordered his white horse to move verbally. He was frowning in confusion. "I do not understand, though; all the books only merely mention your life before your fight against Grindelwald. Why?"

Mr. Dumbledore sighed, "That, my boy, is a question I have asked myself many times. 'Why?' Why would they want to ignore some parts, while stressing and exaggerating others extensively against common sense? And every answer was even more ridiculous, more absurd, but more likely than the one before.

"Maybe we as two might come to a better conclusion than I could alone. Let us worry about it the last if it is not too much a bother...?" Mr Dumbledore moved a pawn forward, in horse's range.

"No, it is not." Harry moved the horse to destroy the pawn. The lance did its job and the pawn fell.

"Then let me tell you my story up to the parts you have read. I was eleven when I recieved my acceptance letter to Hogwarts..." And Mr. Dumbledore told his story without leaving out any detail, for hours on end. His school life, his familial relationship, his friends, everything. When he was done, the sun had already set, and the dinner set by Aunt Petunia –who had left with her husband and son for a family outing they would do when Mr. Dumbledore came over,- had long turned cold. "Now that we have the story out of the way, we can fill our empty bellies!" came Mr. Dumbledore's overly cheerful voice. The chess game was long forgotten.

Harry was affected by the story, to say the least. He struggled to find a word he knew to describe how he felt, but failed. There was simply no way to reconcile the story's main character with the old, benign man before him.

They sat to eat, but Harry simply could not spare the time to eat. He was far too busy contemplating the implications of the latest revelations about Mr. Dumbledore. He now could clearly understand why the books given to him had deliberately avoided the subject of Mr. Dumbledore's earlier life, as burying their heads were not only an ostrich trait –humans tend to do that, from what he could understand. But there was something very disturbing, overall. He could not put his finger on 'what,' exactly, but it was there, as if glaring at him, daring him to recognize. When the thought of Mr. Dumbledore's friendship with Gellert Grindelwald entered his mind, he dismissed it –it was just not that, though it should by all means have been _that_. All Mr. Dumbledore did to engage him in a conversation was blatantly ignored along with the food.

Only after the direct question from Mr. Dumbledore, 'What seems to be the problem, Harry?' did Harry raise his head. Half the food was gone and two empty butter beer bottles stood empty on top of the table. He realized, with somewhat of a shock, that he was thinking for a long time. He looked at the man in front of him, and the child and the teenager from the story.

He tried to begin, "There is something bothering me; like an irksome itch, whenever I scratch somewhere, I find that it is the wrong place. It is hard to describe." and could come up only with an analogy.

"Oh, I find myself feeling the same many times. I find changing my outfit most helpful in that situation."

Which was 'change the way you think that situation' in Dumbledorish. "But how?" he asked, "How do I change my perspective when I have but one?"

"Do you, now?" Mr. Dumbledore countered with another question, "What of the countless times you defended your claims against mine? Do they not count?"

"This is different..." Harry trailed off not knowing what to say.

But the opposition was persistant. "How so?"

"It just is!" He sounded his age even to his ears and it was displeasing greatly. "I am uncomfortable with this topic..." he stated looking at his folded hands.

"Then in vain would you defend while in doubt yourself... But do promise me, you will think on this matter long and hard, until you can have a closure... will you?"

"I will." Harry promised.

Mr. Dumbledore looked at his watch that had every function other than showing what the time was, "The time seems to have slipped away. Before I take my leave, though... do eat your dinner; I dare say it would be healthy for you, as well as your uncle and cousin." His eyes twinkled with hidden mischief behind them.

Harry snickered at the jibe. "It would be, would it not? So, what will our next discussion be?"

"I think what we had decided to for this session would be most convenient. Ah, and your move, by the way."

So their next discussion was going to be the thing they had digressed to today: why would one see what he wished to see? It was getting confusing... And the reminder of the chess was Mr. Dumbledore's parting words. He could deduct many from even that statement, and you never knew what was really meant. He ate absent-mindedly...

He would think on this story for years, and still fail to find what was making him feel so, to no avail –until one moment, a moment that he would look at his life and something would just 'click' and fit into place: the 'problem' was not with the story, it was with Harry himself...


	2. and Wrath

Chapter -II-

Wrath

"Give me that!" shouted Harry in anger, for a letter addressed to him was seized by his two-man-size uncle. A letter that also bore the Hogwarts crest. "You have grown audacious since Headmaster's last visit."

His uncle's manic grin was ear-to-ear. "Who is gonna save you now, boy? Where is your protector? You're NOT going to that school for freaks-! not if I have any say in this!" He was waving the rolled letter like a bat in front of Harry's face.

Harry made for grasping it out of his uncle's fist to no avail. Being an average eleven year old, he had no way of winning any physical quarrel against this half a killer-whale -half as in half the length, not the width. He suppressed his desire to simply bash the man's skull in and... He sighed deeply to supress this homocidal train of thought. He spoke through gritted teeth, "Uncle, cease and desist! You know how futile your effort is!"

Vernon put the letter in his wallet and put the wallet in his pocket all the while keeping Harry at bay with his overly large belly. He snatched the newspaper Harry had picked up with the mail from Harry's hands and returned to the table. He was sipping from his tea while reading the newspaper.

Harry was being ignored for the first time in his life, and he did not like it in the least. "I will not take this insolence and imprudence from you!" Now that that statement was out of the way, it was time for a foolhardy, half-baked plan. It would do no good to him if these Muggles were to think they could get away with something. Retaliation; but how? Physical violance was out of the question, so it had to be something very disturbing, not painful. The Muggles valued their normalcy and routine over all; so, the retaliation would have to threaten those. "I will have to use _other means_ to acquire a letter, now will I not? I will be departing for the Diagon Alley -the Wizarding World's trade centre, that is,- to get an owl and contact the Headmaster. I advise you to mind whatever you Muggles do when you do not have a Wizard around while I prepare for the venture ahead." he said and made for the staircases that would take him to his room, but it was not to be so; Vernon's voice stopped him.

Vernon was grimacing as if he was smelling something singularly awful. "You love to hear your own voice, don't you, boy?"

Well, for an idiot, Vernon did possess some meagre amount of intelligence -which Harry would love to crush. "No, Uncle; I simply did not expect you to understand anything without explicit instruction; otherwise, why would you need to read every writing on every surface after all!"

"Because unlike your lot, I care about doing what I do _right! _Not just wave a stick around and expect every physical law to bend to my will!"

"So... ah... _Muggle_ of you, I have to say. But I must simply cease this argument; it is clear we are two separate beings, thus, would fail to find common ground, if I may be so bold. Now, could you simply, just, you know, disappear?" Harry tried to stare down his nose at Vernon, but considering the height difference between them -much to his frustration,- it was not possible. It did not keep him from trying, though.

Vernon raised a hand as if to slap, "I'll not be talked to like that, boy!"

"My, my! Such a temper!" Harry muttered loudly. "Uncle, we both know that as what it is; an empty threat. Now if we are done baiting each other, I have a place to be."

So after he retrieved a pouch that contained enough wizarding currency to take him there, and left for the Diagon Alley without letting Vernon delay him further. But as always, complications arised not long after he left the house; like he did not have a wand to haul the purple tri-decker that was called the Knight Bus, a ride for the stranded wizard and witch, blah, blah, blah -and fuming did not solve anything at all, it was decided. He hated the woman, but the Squib at the neighbourhood was seemingly the only option -and it was far too easy to find the house; just follow the worst smell to be found around -or a cat -or mice, if any were to be seen. How she perceived that to be blending in was an enigma.

When Harry found out she was not home, he sighed in relief. He had no wish to be invited for a tea in such a stinking environment. It was a chore just not to try to gag from the smell, let alone the always stale and seemingly specially humiditized tea. As was his intention all along, he sneaked toward the hearth and lit a fire that he threw some Floo powder on the top, and sucked into an endless vertigo after whispering a 'Diagon Alley' which lasted ten seconds or so at the most.

The exit point for all incoming Floo visitors to the Diagon Alle -at least those who did not specify where they wished to go and only gave the adress as 'the Diagon Alley'- was the Leaky Cauldron; a dingy pub that served anybody at all. Harry could actually see a Hag... Was it flirting with the man next table? The man could not possibly seem less pleased to sit where he was sitting right , Hags' mating habits were, frankly, disgusting; who could find such a despicable tongue licking so cranky lips actually, Merlin forbid, lustful? He turned his head as soon as he felt the gag reflex kick in.

He began to get on with his plan, and that was when it really hit him, seeing the unyielding wall in front of him; in its place should have been an Archway! He went back in with a sigh; sometimes Fate was an unforgiving mistress. Tom the Bartender was a helpful fellow, though, as he was so kind as to lead him through the Archway into the Diagon Alley proper as though it was an everyday occurance; he was not kind enough to ignore Harry's fame, nevertheless. So, he had to practically shake one hand in every pair of hands after a loud 'Merlin's sacky balls! It's Harry Potter!' exclamation. Harry was not a happy boy after that. This entire adventure was a mess up from the first go, it seemed. But he had to venture on towards the Gringotts, and that he did.

Goblins were peculiar little monsters; if Harry had seen one without aforeknowledge of magic and magical beasts, he could have found the likeness of the Goblins to some Muggle stories. He was more grateful for the scare the Goblins had surely given the Muggles now as the way the Dursleys had been behaving -or not 'behaving' thereof,- had drastically changed after the Headmaster ceased to visit. Little though the Goblins were, they knew how to carry themselves and stress their pointed teeth, deathly weapon carrying habits as their innate abilities to be fearsome. Harry was not inclined to test their bites if their barks were as he had seen. With these feelings that he found himself in front of a free teller in order to access his vault. _I know it is no use to be polite to your kind, but I will oversee that fact and say_ "Hi." No need to mention that only the last part was voiced. "I wish to make a withdrawal from my vault." he said.

The word 'withdrawal' had to have been a sacrilage in the Goblin language translation, because the Goblin's face displayed a deep frown instantly. Harry had no worries about the Goblins, though; their only strength was the ability to breed like rabbits. In a prolonged war, they could field mass armies from three, four year old Goblins- a blitzkreig, Goblins were done in. Harry stopped his musings there; he had no desire to declare a war against the Goblins, he was just angry about the fact that the teller was taking his sweet time to serve him. Not to mention a war of one man against virtually against a nation -virtual only because the term 'nation' would imply an independant government.

Harry could not take the delay anymore, "Shall this be done in this century, or would you like to wait for the twenty first?"

The Goblin would have turned a shade of purple if it were not a Goblin most probably, "Mister Potter, I'm sure you _think_ yours is the most important bussiness I have to deal right now, but so does everybody else."

"Why, do you not think myself more important than your average commoner in Goblin standards? Where would you be now had Lord Voldemort not been driven back? Do not for one moment allow yourself to think you are more... significant... than myself, Goblin; your _superiors_ would not think so!" Insolence could go both ways, and Harry considered himself an accomplished insulter. The shades his uncle and cousin's faces had turned would prove him right on this one. "Now, if you could order a Goblin to take me to my vault...?"

Harry was not sure if it was because he had asserted his superriority over the Goblin or it simply had not the patience to continue, but he was riding a railcart shortly after the performance towards his vault. The stomach churning was the common side-effects most would feel to access a vault. When he could breathe fresh air again, his pockets were full of shiny, golden coins enough to last through the year and the shopping spree he had in mind- things were looking up.

As Harry had not the slightest clue what he was supposed to be buying for his first year at Hogwarts, he decided to buy what a wizard would need throughout his life first. There was only one such item: a wand. The first stop was 'Ollivender's, Since A.D. something' he had caught a glimpse of. It was a dingy shop with shelves upon shelves of wands in dusty, wooden boxes- and a bell that tingled when he first had entered the place. It was annoying, really. The man -Ollivender, possibly,- taking his time was even more so... Maybe things were _not_, exactly, looking up.

"Ah- Mister Potter!" exclaimed the man. _Goddammit!_ the voice was an offence to the sensitive ear!..

Other than blowing up the whole shop at some point and wasting an hour -_an hour!_- to find a suitable wand, then being informed that the wand is the brother to Lord Voldemort's, it was an uneventful first stop- and taking the term 'oddity,' and 'weirdness' to a wholly new level. No wonder the next shop was to buy a lemon sundae and sit down for a bit of peace. He was beginning to feel old, and he knew that it was not healthy at his age. He used that time not to relax, though, but to mentally prepare himself for the upcoming trial; to shop.

He was almost forgetting the whole point of his presence in the Diagon Alley in the process, though- to annoy Vernon Dursley as much as possible with anything magical. So a few articles of clothing that screamed 'magic,' an exotic pet by Muggle standards, a few books of magical quality or about magic were possible choices. Oh, and the cauldrons did not look usual for a Muggle household, either. Magic spells were cast via a wand in general. Now that he had his, he wished to test it. He could remember only one spell, so he used it on the first available target: "Accio!" And the spoon flew far too fast from the table toward his head. Only by a reflexive dodge that he was unharmed. This broke his concentration on the spell, along with a window of the shop behind him. Collateral damage, that one was. He left the crime scene promptly.

The rest of the shopping was, thankfully, uneventful. His pockets were much lighter, and his load much heavier by the time he was done wandering around the Diagon Alley and looking for things to piss Dursley off. He had bought an owl as a pet, named with much imagination as 'Owl,' the books he would need for the entire first year were acquired as the place had the list already. He had picked a trunk along the road as he was told it would be of much use for the trips to and from Hogwarts; it was a most magnificant trunk: it had one compartment that was the size it was supposed to be, and very simple with a simple ivy carving. He had his initials engraved as an addition, only. He had the clothing and protective gear, potion supplies... Quite possibly all the items that was on the list he was trying to get...

The only problem was resting in his pocket, stuffed in there in anger, crumpled: a letter from a shit-head from the Ministry of Magic, informing that underage spell casting is not allowed, therefore punishable for the second offence, he was being warned, blah blah blah. He could faintly remember touching upon the very same matter while discussing magical proggress with the Headmaster. He cursed his own stupidity for not remembering. He had wasted his 'first warning' for nothing while he could have performed his ability right in front of Dursley! What else could intimidate the man better than, say, supporting a pig tail for a while? Now at least he had the means to contact somebody, though, that had to count for something!

He was laughing manically riding the Knight Bus back home: _Beware, Dursley, here I come!_

A.N.: The 'tone' of the story has changed, so did Harry's behaviour, and they will be changing from time to time until Harry's 'character' settles.


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